She tried to imagine herself going through life making a pretense of taking his learning and his talents seriously, of refraining carefully from calling attention to his errors or correcting his misstatements, of shielding him from the ridicule which his pedantry must bring upon him when he mingled with his superiors, smoothing over smarts when he bullied and "talked down," without convincing his adversaries--as Helen had seen other women do. But could she do it? When it came right down to brass tacks, she asked herself, could she exchange herself, her freedom, her individuality, all the years to come if many were spared her, for the chance to get well and for relief from anxiety about food and clothes and shelter?
To marry Sprudell meant immunity from freezing on street corners, from mental and physical exhaustion, from the rebuffs which were a part of her work and which hurt far worse than anyone guessed because she could never regard them as impersonal. Women were making such exchanges every day and with less excuse--for luxury or position merely--but could she do it?
Must she grow into an old woman without a single romance in her life? That much seemed every woman's right. What had she done that the Fates should "have it in for her" like this? She clenched her hands under the shelter of the tablecloth. This thing she had made up her mind to do seemed such a horrid, sordid, vulgar end to youth and sentiment.
Sprudell meanwhile was revolving in his mind the best method of imparting effectively and dramatically the news which was burdening him. He considered beginning with a Latin quotation from his Vest-Pocket Manual--"Labor omnia vincit"--or something like that--but ended, when he felt the right moment had arrived, by stating the fact bluntly and abruptly: "I'm going to be as rich as Croesus."
Helen looked up, to see his red lower lip trembling with excitement.
"My dear," solemnly, "I shall have fabulous wealth."
Undoubtedly he was in earnest. She could see that from the intensity shining in his eyes. Wonderingly she took the pamphlet which he withdrew from its envelope and passed to her, watching her face eagerly as she read.
PROSPECTUS OF THE BITTER ROOT PLACER MINING COMPANY proclaimed the outside page, and the frontispiece contained a picture of seven large mules staggering up a mountain trail under a load of bullion protected by guards carrying rifles with eight-foot barrels.
"That illustration is my idea," he said proudly.
"It's very--very alluring," Helen conceded. "And you are interested?"
"Interested!" gleefully, "it's all mine! Wait till you go on."
The first paragraph of the text read: We have, with infinite hardship and difficulties and a large personal expense, secured absolute legal ownership, and physical possession, of eight placer claims, making 160 acres of the richest, unworked placer ground in the United States.